Grace makes beauty out of ugly things.
— U2

It began with something wholly unthinkable. Shortly after 7 a.m. one Friday in early April, when my husband went upstairs to make us coffee, I propped myself up in bed, grabbed my laptop, and logged on to Facebook. There, on the right handrail where my friends’ status updates pop up randomly, I saw a short sentence that changed my life forever: “David is really sad that Mark died today.”

David Vanderveen is a friend of mine from Wheaton College who lives in Laguna Beach, California. I checked the time, realizing that it was only 5 a.m. on the West Coast, and thought, “Please, God, let him not be talking about Mark Metherell.”

Mark Metherell, Dave’s best friend, next-door neighbor in Laguna, and all-around partner in crime, was one of my favorite people. A former Navy Seal, Mark was working in the private sector in Iraq helping to train Iraqi forces. Mark and Dave have notoriously wicked senses of humor and for a few minutes I thought surely this must be one of their bizarre inside jokes. I sent Dave an email asking — pleading really — for him to tell me he wasn’t serious. When I didn’t hear back from him immediately, I emailed Mark’s other best friend, Dave Burchi, who also lives in Laguna.

“It’s not a joke, Cath,” Dave wrote back. “Mark was killed by a roadside bomb this morning.” My heart gained 50 pounds and sank in my chest, a painful boulder. By the time my husband returned with our cups of coffee, I was a puddle of tears, sobbing inconsolably as I tried to explain what I’d just learned.

I still can’t believe it. Mark, 39, was one of the most alive people I’ve ever known. He was a year ahead of me at Wheaton, but he stayed for a fifth year to finish a degree in literature (and biology), and we graduated together in 1992. While Mark wasn’t one of my best friends, he was certainly one of my favorite friends — ever.

Mark was so many marvelous things. A lanky John Cleese-ian figure swathed in khaki and flannel, he was wryly and riotously funny. Mark could convey more humor with the quiver of one wonky eyebrow than most people can manage with their whole bodies. He was deeply intelligent and wonderfully wacky. An adventurous, sea-loving surfer (even in Lake Michigan), he was literate, faithful, kind.

And he was a hero to me long before he proudly served his country in the armed forces and beyond. Mark died on April 11, 2008 when the vehicle he was riding in — the lead vehicle in a convoy — struck a roadside bomb outside Sadr City. He was killed instantly, leaving behind his beloved wife, Sarah, their infant daughter, Cora, and a devastated community of friends and family all over the world.

I ached to throw my arms around the heartbroken Daves and the rest of those who knew and loved Mark best. I wanted to tell them what Mark surely would have: that they are loved and treasured for who they are, for the strength and beauty of their spirits, for their wit and friendship, for being the vessels of grace for us that they are.

In those first hours and days after Mark’s untimely death, many of us took to the Internet to share stories about our dearly-departed friend. It started right there on Facebook, with the dozen or so of us who were already members and more than 50 who joined to reconnect with old friends so we could grieve together.

One of his former Wheaton roommates told the story I’d long forgotten about the time Mark presided over a particularly raucous off-campus party, seated regally in a throne-like orange chair, completely nude. I shared a few stories of my own, like the time he told me he might join the military so he’d have material for the novel he was writing, or when he scared the snot out of me by pretending to jump off the roof of the Congress Hotel in downtown Chicago (only to land on a wide ledge four feet below that he knew was there but I didn’t. Booger.)

My fondest memory of Mark took place in a dive bar called Punky’s not long after we graduated. He didn’t engage me in conversation very often (actually, I didn’t think he liked me very much), but he took me aside in a brotherly fashion to tell me something important. I was about to embark on a new romance, and I don’t think he approved of the suitor. Mark said he wanted me to know he thought I too often sold myself short and that I was special. He said I deserved to be cherished by someone who would appreciate all that I am without wanting to change me. Years later, when I met the man who did just that, I had Mark to thank for helping me recognize it.

When I shared that story online, I heard almost immediately from two women I knew at Wheaton. One, Margaret, a distant acquaintance, told me she had a similar conversation with Mark when they were studying in England one summer nearly 20 years earlier. The other was my dear old friend from the college theater company, Amy, now a massage therapist in Hawaii, who I hadn’t talked to in more than a decade. She posted a note on Facebook saying she remembered the night I came home from Punky’s after having that transforming conversation with Mark and told her what had happened. She remembered it exactly as I had. That was such a comfort — memory can be a tricky thing — and reconnecting with her after all those years was an enormous blessing.

As we mourned and remembered together in virtual community, one of the words that came up most often in describing Mark was “godly.” By that I think we meant that he embodied all the qualities we like to believe God possesses. Loving. Wise. Patient. Strong. Tender. Surprising. A friend who is listening and watching even when we’re not aware of it.

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